


Simulacra

by Amand_r



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:57:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justine turns in her sleep when the monster runs his hand along her face, his dark mottled skin rough from the elements. His hand slips down to her breast then, hesitating over the rhythm of it. Mechanical, almost like a clock or any number of man-made devices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simulacra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thingswithwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/gifts).



> Written for Yuletide 2008.

When the gates close, Justine has not yet returned. It is cold and blustery and she has never been good with time. Once Dr. Frankenstein gave her an old pocketwatch of his to keep in her dress so that she had a timepiece of her own, but she had broken it playing out in the ditches with Elizabeth.

Her small hands beat against the wooden gate, but the city guards do not hear her over the wind and the rumbling in the distance. They would have never opened the gate anyway; there were still vagrants who had fled disease in Bern coming to the doors and pleading entrance, not to mention the vandals and monsters that prowled the highways at night, wanting to slip into town to wreak terror and drink at the lesser respectable establishments.

She is horrified and trembling when she reaches the barn, and as she burrows into one of the haystacks in the back, clean and untouched by the animals in the dwelling with her, Justine lays her head in on her arms and weeps into her sleeves, until the distant thunder catches her in its rhythmic pounding and her tears cease as she lapses into sleep.

...

Justine turns in her sleep when the monster runs his hand along her face, his dark mottled skin rough from the elements. His hand slips down to her breast then, hesitating over the rhythm of it. Mechanical, almost like a clock or any number of man-made devices. Not so unlike him, yet another construct. He knows that construct can sometimes mean simulacrum. Simulacrum means effigy. Effigy means replacement. Replacement implies non-reality.

His hand freezes above her neck then, and he thinks of another neck under his fingers, a neck that was small and reedy, not unlike a loon or other small animal that he uses for sustenance.

She smells of sour milk and a raw and pungent pomander, sour flowers and alcohol. He thinks of the family in the cottage, his loving family when he was but a Good Spirit, bringing firewood and potatoes. He remembers hazily from behind closed eyes those evenings in which the children were tucked into their bed with their blind grandfather, and the Man and Woman would retreat to their bed on the far side of the room, and in the fire light, the monster could see them moving under the meager blanket, hands and heads and toes peeking from the edges, hushed moans and squeals wending their way to his hidden spot.

He lifts the edges of Justine's gown and reaches in, just as he has seen other do in dimly lit rooms, seeking something and meeting only more skin, moist and warm under his fingers. Justine stirs, one of her hands moving to intercept his, even as she still sleeps, her moans increasing when his hand slips past a layer of fur and soft folds to something exceedingly hot for flesh. His hand retracts suddenly when she lets out a long strangled moan, and she rolls away from him, onto her side, her neck arching back to regard him, even in sleep.

The monster stares at the gold curls at the nape of her neck, from under her traveling bonnet, the fairness of her shoulders from under the flimsy cloak never meant to be worn outside in this chill, the minute movements of her eyes from under the pale lids. He ponders her trapped breasts, whole and perfect, and the embroidered flowers on her gown, dancing about the ruffled hem.

He removes the locket from his pocket, opens it once more to see his Maker's picture within, and then closes it and slips it into the pocket of Justine's pinafore, knowing then that some messages were more urgent than the smell of lavender and the press of flesh against one's skin for the evening.

When Justine awakens in the morn, she is struck by an awful ticking sound, loud and resounding in her ears. Too loud, she thinks, for it to be the clock striking in the steeple of the church, and for that, she would have to be much closer to the gates. No it is high and frantic, familiar, something to remind her that time is moving by much too quickly.

Her hand flies to the pocket of her pinafore.

END


End file.
